


Heavy in your Arms

by givemeunicorns



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Mollymauk Tealeaf Lives, Past Abuse, Platonic Soulmates, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:54:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21773266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/givemeunicorns/pseuds/givemeunicorns
Summary: “I'm sorry,” he whispered again and he was crying too, half in her lap, pulling her to him, face pressed into her hair, holding her to him so tightly it hurt. The way he used to when she'd wake up screaming, Zuala's blood still too bright behind her eyes, “I'm sorry it took so long.”~~~A Molly&Yasha reunion fic I did, based on Milimauk's amazing fanart.
Relationships: Mollymauk Tealeaf & Yasha
Comments: 3
Kudos: 166





	Heavy in your Arms

**Author's Note:**

  * For [millimauk](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=millimauk).



> I based this fic on Millimauk's fantastic fanart. You can find it here! https://millimauk.tumblr.com/post/185936067865/there-you-are-took-ya-long-enough-i-just
> 
> You should also check out their art on twitter @milliiii
> 
> Thanks again Milli for letting me play in you playground!
> 
> Fic title is based on the song by Florence and the Machine

He was a ghost. He had to be. 

It wouldn't be the first time she'd seen his ghost in recent months. His lifeless body haunted the worst corners of her nightmares. Though the dreams, the ones where he's whole and alive, sitting in the sunshine with her head in his lap, braiding flowers into her hair, and telling her about some handsome local, laughing about the show, or gossiping about their fellow circus people, those were far worse.

She couldn't escape him in her waking hours either. Standing on the street or sitting in a tavern, she would see a flash of lavender or a glint of gold out of the corner of her eye, or catch the familiar smell of the lavender soap he so favored when they could afford it. In the liminal space between sleeping and waking, she would feel his fingers ruffle hear hair and the touch of his breath on her skin as he teased “Wake up sleepy head. It's a going to be a good day, I can feel it.” His laugher rang in her head like a bell, a harbinger of the shadow of madness she couldn't seem to shake. In her months with Obann, Molly's voice had been a phantom, calling to her as if over some great distance, trying to draw her back to a light she couldn't ever seem to reach. 

A lean purple tiefling had unfolded out of a shadows like a vengeful ghost, blades glowing bright as he leaped onto one of the cultists, cutting man down in two blows. Seeing him there, she knew it'd finally happened. She'd finally gone mad. It couldn't be real. She couldn't let herself hope, not after so long. It hurt too much

But Molly stayed solid and the man at his feet stayed dead. Fjord dropped another in a blast of light, ending the fight. No one moved to loot the bodies, they could only stare in stunned, communal silence. There was a wave of relief that washed over her; they could see him too. 

“Molly?” Beau breathed, the first to speak, her fists lowering just a bit and she stared, “What the fuck?”

Something like fear passed his face for just a moment, before he spun the scimitar with a flourish and grinned. Jester's hands went over her mouth and she made a soft sound like a sob the moment she heard his voice. Caleb's expression was a strange mix of horror, confusion, and relief. Fjord gaped. Nott cursed. Caduceus cocked his head, seemingly curious but otherwise unbothered by the is strange turn of events and whatever his sense of death allowed him to see. 

“I could ask you the same thing. I've been chasing you assholes for months,” Molly answered. His hair had gotten longer, and there's a scar under his eye that wasn't there the last time. But his smile hadn't changed, warm and kind, even when it was a lie. 

“Catching up will have to wait,” Caduceus cut in, ears drooping, smile fading, as he gripped his staff tighter, “We've got company.”

The sound of shouting echoed down the chamber as a new wave of cultists pour into the chamber. The fighting thick and ugly, and Yasha raged, forgetting everything but the anger and the weight of Skin Gouger in her hands. It was easier than remembering, than acknowledging the weight of all that's happened, and all she's done, since her and Molly were parted. The man before her died on her blade and a part of he wondered how many of the dead fought of their own free will or if any of them were like her, held under the sway of darker magic. For the former, she thought, death would be a mercy, for the later, justice, neither of which a thing she is worthy of dispensing, not after all she'd done. It didn't matter. It couldn't. Worthy or not, she wouldn't let the chains be broken. That was her penance. 

Even focused on her work, her two toned eyes still looked for him in the mire, the act coming back to her with the same muscle memory as fighting. A glimpse of silver, a flash of purple and red and dancing light. He moved like something out of a dream, a scimitar that she remembered in one hand and a newer, rougher hewn blade she's never seen in the other. He had always been a strangely graceful creature, especially in a fight, like his body knew the steps to a dance his mind couldn't remember. The sleeves of his coat are the same familiar maroon, dotted with stars and beads, but the body of his coat was had changed. It was crafted fine tapestry, the image of the Platinum Dragon winding across his back. Just like Molly, to turn his burial shroud into a fancy coat. 

She didn't see the woman with the knife, not until she was right there, under Yasha's guard. The knife sank in and Yasha howled, more rage than pain, as the blade caught in her armor, stopping a flesh wound from becoming a killing blow. She turned to swing but the woman was too close. In a flash, he was there, pushing her attacker back, hissing in infernal. Yahsa couldn't understand the words but the meaning was clear. Blood clouded the woman's eyes and she wailed before Molly cut across her throat, silencing her forever. He wasn't not smiling anymore, when he turned to look at the barbarian, red eyes roving her her form, checking for wounds.

“You alright darling?” he asked, breathless and all she could do was nod. For a heartbeat, it was as if time had frozen and she could see the bone deep weariness in him. Like he might reach for her and just, crumble to nothing in her arms. Another cultist raises a blade, rushed into his space, and, suddenly as it had come upon them, the spell is broken and they're back in the thick of it again; Yasha cleaving apart enemies with her sword while Molly cut through them with blades and blood magic.

The second wave of attackers began to thin, the fighting grown desperate and mad cap. When the last body fell and it was over, the silence was deafening. Caduceus moved to the opening, holding up a hand. The Nein tensed as his ears twitched. Finally, he sighed and nodded. 

“ I don't hear anyone else. I think that's the last of them.”

A collective breath of relief filled the room. The Nein looked at each other and then at their once fallen friend. His smile slipped back into place, the mask of the jovial fool, the lovable charlatan, even in the face of these people he'd so loved. 

“Nice to see you all too,” he snorted, as if he hadn't just come back from the dead, cloaked in shadow and ready for a fight. 

They all erupt at once. Jester crashed into him, nearly taking him off his feet as she sobbed an endless stream of unintelligible questions he didn't even try to answer as he returned the embrace. Fjord offered a sheepish and lopsided smile, no doubt remembering the Summer's Dance, melted away to nothing in the kiln, along with that unholy falchion. His folded himself around both of them and it struck Yasha that she couldn't remember the last time she'd seen Fjord hug anyone. Nott erupted with questions, her verbiage far more colorful than Jester's, but she was smiling around a mouthful of jagged teeth as she tugged at his coat tales. Caleb was shaking his head, muttering to himself in Zemnian, a cautious smile creeping onto into his expression. Beau was quite, staring with an intensity that was almost frightening, until Fjord pulled back and gently took Jester with him. Molly offered a cocky, lopsided to the monk, opened his mouth to make what was likely some kind of goodnatured if slightly snide remark, when Beau pulled back and clocked him, hard enough across the jaw. His head snapped back and he stumbled a step, but Beau is already on him, wrapping him in a crushing hug, face buried in his neck so they can't see her cry. Molly seemed shocked for a breath, more surprised by the embrace than by the blow, eyes lingering on the tattoo on the back of her exposed neck and shoulders. He touched the marks carefully, before he wrapped his arms around her and let her stifle her grief in the collar of his coat. 

Yasha wanted to run to him, push past them all and hold him into her arms until they became one person. She wanted to scream at him, admonish him for his recklessness, beg him never to leave her again. She wanted to see the scar, touch the wound that took him from her. But she couldn't make herself move, couldn't find her voice to speak, to call out his name. She couldn't look at him. Somewhere in her soul she knew, this if he looked in her eyes, he would know what she'd done. What she was. He would ask about the scar on Beau's stomach, twin to the one he must have hidden under his shirt. He would know she was a coward. That she had nearly killed their friends, the family he so deeply wanted to keep together, not one time but over and over and over again. That she had murdered innocent people. If he looked in her eyes, he would know her for what she was, before them, before him. Not Yasha, not the lonely girl he found in the circus, not the person who's broken soul he'd cobbled together with the shattered, mismatched pieces of his own. He would see only Orphanmaker, fool puppet of mad god. 

A furred hand came to rest on her shoulder, Caduceus's presence warm and solid at her side, as he paused in his work of sending bodies back to the Wild Mother. 

“This is nice,” he said kindly, always so aware of her loneliness some how. 

She only nodded. 

He patted her shoulder once more before his hand feel away, going back to his grim work alone while the others laughed and cried. 

Beau released Mollymauk from her crushing hug, wiping at her face with her sleeve, Molly lifted Nott into his arms, and she cried and cursed him, hugged him and hissed at him. Caleb even allows himself to tugged into a brief embrace. He took the goblin from Molly and quiet words pass between them and the tiefling turned to her, a striking sadness on his face that left her aching. She wanted to bolt, her animal heart beating wildly against the cage of her ribs. But couldn't. She was rooted, thunder shaking in her bones so hard she trembled. She clenched her fists, willed herself to be invisible, but that was never one of the Stormlord's gifts. Instead, she dropped her gaze to the blood covered stone, turned her back to him, let her hair hide her from the world. She wished she could make herself smaller, that she could disappear into nothing. It was cowardly and cruel, but she didn't care. It would be better than waiting, waiting for him to find the monster lurking in her skin. 

“Yasha,” he called, and her name sounded like honey and she hated herself for loving him so much. Her loving him had killed him. Molly had always returned affection with affection, he loved her because she loved him, because she had been weak and cold and alone, unable to to turn away the warmth of his fire. If he had not cared so much for her, he never would have tried to save her from the Iron Shepherds, he never would have faced Lorenzo. He never would have been murdered, laid in the cold ground, alone. She had told him once that she wasn't sure she could ever love someone the way she had loved Zuala. At the time she had never thought she could love someone as much either. She had been wrong. Her love for him was different, yes, but no less strong, no less deep, no less able to hurt her in the end. He had left her, and for all that she had missed him, god's she was angry with him, and she hated herself for that too. 

“Yasha love, what's the matter?” he asked, his voice so familiar and deeply missed that it ached.

His hand touched the small of her back and she flinched, squeezed her eyes shut. The tears spilled over and ran down her face, hot as blood. 

The others had gone quiet again, save for a few assorted sniffles. His movements were careful, his voice low and soothing, like he was gentling an animal. 

“Hey now, what are those tears for,” he asked, his tone almost playful as he circles round her, trying to peek under the curtain of her hair. 

Her fists clenched and he took them in his hands, scarred and calloused, covered in rings, just like she remembered. He was nearly nose to nose with her now, so close she could feel her hair catch on his horns, feel his breath against her skin. The motions were almost playful, this well rehearsed dance they did when she was lost in herself and he's play the fool to make her smile. He still smelled like she remembered, like incense and smoke and sharp liquor, the sweet flower oil he used on his hair, and the metallic tang of blood. He leaned into her, chest to chest, warm, solid. Real.

“You know it's very rude not to look someone in the eye when they're talking,” he teased, but his voice sounded so small.

She couldn't hold out. Her shaking hands moved without thinking, cradling his jaw, touching the familiar lines of his face, curve of his horns. He exhaled sharply, as if the touch ached, but he leaned into all the same. She breathed his name for the first time in months.

“Molly?”

“Ja, ja,” he chuckled, a private joke she'd almost forgotten, arms coming up to hold her, the way he used to when she was feeling small and alone. A refuge in a storm. The only person in the world who didn't ask her for more than she could give. She sobbed, her body crumpling under the weight of her grief. Suddenly it's all too heavy. She can't carry it anymore. 

“Hey, Yasha come now....”

She opened her eyes, meeting his ruby red gaze. Love and rage battled in her, the grief clawing at her insides like a living thing. She'd spent so long, chained and alone. Obann's sweet, cloying words the only sound in her mind, his menacing smile the only familiar face. First she'd gotten the Nein back, and now Molly too. It can't be real. She's never gotten to keep the things she loves. It was more than she could have allowed herself to hope and she was certain, any moment, something was going to come along and snatch her happiness away again. That her friends would walk out of this place and leave her behind. That he won't be Molly at all, it will be a stranger wearing her friend's face or that she'll wake to find it all a dream. She had spent so much time, wondering what was real.The weight of wondering was too much. Her knees buckled and she let gravity carry her down. Molly tried to catch her, to hold her up, but there has always been so much of her and so little of him. The stone was cold and unforgiving under her knees. His name clawed it's way out of her throat in an ugly, wrecked sob. 

“I'm sorry,” he whispered, his voice breaking as he followed her down. It's a voice he kept only for her, hidden away in their tent at the circus, or the room they would sometimes share at the inns. The voice he used when he told her how he got his name, about the dreams of a life before, about his anxiety over who he might have been, what he might have done, the fear that one day that person's life might catch up with him. 

“I'm sorry,” he whispered again and he was crying too, half in her lap, pulling her to him, face pressed into her hair, holding her to him so tightly it hurt. The way he used to when she'd wake up screaming, Zuala's blood still too bright behind her eyes, “I'm sorry it took so long.”

Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, the breath she felt like she'd been holding for months finally rattling out of her chest. She let herself lean on him, finally at rest. There is an ocean and nothing between them all at once. He was real and warm and alive. He'd found her. He'd came back for her. The hurt wasn't gone, the grief wasn't vanquished, but it quieted, settling in chest, leaving her to fight another day. The thunder rumbled in her bones, no longer hollow, no longer empty. Her Mollymauk had come home.

**Author's Note:**

> Level 10 Blood Hunter- Path of the Ghostslayer: Dark Velocity.  
> Upon reaching 10th level, you beckon the surrounding shadows to grant you unnatural swiftness on the battlefield. You gain darkvision out to 30 feet, or if you have darkvision, extend it out an additional 30 feet. While in dim light or darkness, your speed increases by 10 feet, and attacks of opportunity made against you have disadvantage.


End file.
